


We Can Watch the Snow Fall

by stillscape



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:52:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillscape/pseuds/stillscape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leslie and Ben meet before S1, at a Christmas wedding. Tropes ensue. Thanks to diaphenia for being a beautiful glittery 1970s rock star and to throwingpens and craponaspatula for brainstorming. A slightly belated Christmas present for ashisfriendly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Can Watch the Snow Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashisfriendly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashisfriendly/gifts).



***

The first sign Ben Wyatt’s weekend was not going to go to plan was, quite literally, a sign. It was positioned on the front desk of the golf resort, printed on cheap computer paper and illustrated with incongruous clip art of palm trees, and it announced that internet access was available in guest rooms for only $14.95 per night. He wasn’t going to pay that much just to browse the _X-Files_ message boards for a night or two. 

The second sign was that the hotel had been overbooked for the weekend. 

“I’m afraid that puts you and me together in a room, partner! Everyone else from the office is already checked in. And you wouldn’t want to room with a stranger.” 

“Great,” said Ben, flatly. Chris sounded way too excited for his tastes. As usual. “Nope. Best to stick with the known.” 

“Exactly.” He handed Ben a room key, which Ben pocketed. “Got your suitcase? We only have half an hour before the rehearsal.” 

“Got it.” It was more of an overnight bag. He’d packed light. Overnight bag, computer bag, garment bag containing one hideous rented burgundy tux and forest green tie. At least he’d be coordinated to the giant Christmas tree in the lobby. 

“You know what’s great about being roomies for the weekend, Ben? It’ll be so much more efficient for you to supervise my vitamin regimen.” 

The third sign Ben’s weekend had deviated far, far from plan came when they opened the door of room 214 and discovered a single queen-sized bed.

“This is a mistake,” he said, stopping dead in his tracks. Chris plowed into him. It hurt. 

He called the front desk and learned it hadn’t been a mistake. The hotel really was that overbooked.

“They don’t even have a cot,” he groaned, banging the phone back into its receiver. “I guess I’ll sleep in the armchair tonight, and you can sleep in it tomorrow—”

“Nonsense.” Chris popped into the bed, swinging his legs elegantly into place and crossing them at the ankles. Ben’s jaw clenched. Did Chris really have to put his _shoes_ on the comforter? “We’ve known each other almost eight years, Ben. Surely two old friends can share a bed for a weekend without it being weird.” 

“Oh, I don’t—” 

Chris held up a hand. “Say no more. Of course we can.” 

Ben swallowed. 

“I should warn you of one thing, though.” 

“You talk in your sleep?” He wouldn’t particularly mind that. He slept with the TV on most of the time anyway, just for the company. 

“No. As you already know, I keep myself _very_ well hydrated. And my bladder is literally the size of a thimble. I will be urinating frequently throughout the night.” 

And with that, he sprang from the bed and into the bathroom, leaving Ben to contemplate some rather horrible mental images. Some of them involved urine, and others had more to do with what Chris was going to say when he realized Ben occasionally slept in an ancient Star Wars t-shirt. 

Well, he told himself, as he collapsed in the armchair and pushed four fingers over his aching scalp—the t-shirt was _comfortable_. 

*** 

Across the hall in room 213—a bad omen, Lindsay had said, but what did she know?—Leslie Knope was trying to convince her best friend that sharing a single queen-sized bed for the weekend was a _great_ idea. 

“It’ll be just like a road trip!” she said, trying to keep the brightness in her voice. “Like that college spring break when Sarah and I went to D.C.” 

Lindsay was adjusting her rehearsal dinner dress in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of the bathroom door, and though Leslie couldn’t see Lindsay’s face, she knew she was rolling her eyes. 

“I’m sure that was fine when you were twenty years old, Leslie,” she sighed, smoothing her palms over her hips. Twice. Then a third time. “You’ve entered your thirties. Rooming together is sensible, but don’t you think a second bed is mandatory?”

Lindsay had entered her thirties, too, but Leslie chose not to mention it. 

“Mandatory or not,” she grumbled, “we don’t _have_ a second bed, or even a cot, so we might as well make the best of it.” 

Lindsay turned around, her perfectly groomed eyebrow arched. Then her face relaxed. She even almost smiled. “At least you don’t take up much room.” 

“Exactly!” Leslie agreed. “I’m a great person to share a bed with.” 

When she’d been dumped last month, at the Thanksgiving dinner table, her tendencies towards sleep-talking and what Jason had called _aggressive cuddling_ had been cited. She scowled and tried to push Jason out of her mind. She hadn’t liked him that much (she told herself), not even before he’d said “I’m thankful I decided to stop seeing you and start seeing other people.”

But it had all worked out. Jason knew she was a bridesmaid, and he barely knew Sarah or her fiancé. So there was no way on earth he’d bother driving to a country club outside of Indianapolis the weekend before Christmas. He hadn’t wanted to attend in the first place. Still, if he showed up anyway…crap on a poinsettia, that would be bad. The bridesmaid dress had to be one of the least attractive garments she’d ever put on her body. The most beautiful woman in the world couldn’t pull it off. It strongly reminded Leslie of certain pieces of dusty old furniture in the horrible Eagleton History Museum. She had only been there once, on a forced field trip in middle school, but the memory of ancient snobby furniture lingered. 

“Leslie.” Lindsay’s voice pierced her mental fog, and she jumped. “Is that what you’re wearing to the rehearsal?” 

“Yes.” She glanced down at her blouse and skirt. “What’s wrong with it?” 

“The ruffles are juvenile.” 

“No,” Leslie said, biting her lip so she wouldn’t visibly bristle. The ruffles were bright red. Cheery. Friendly. “They’re festive.” 

Lindsay said nothing, but turned back to the mirror and twisted sideways for a final inspection. “Five more,” she muttered, as though she’d forgotten Leslie was in the room and could hear her and was liable to launch right back into her best-friend manifesto on how Lindsay didn’t need to lose five more pounds, that she was beautiful exactly as she was, had _always_ been beautiful exactly as she was… 

Lindsay’s “juvenile” comment still stung, though. It was a tiny sting, but it was enough to make Leslie keep her mouth shut as they headed for the elevators. 

***

Three days ago, Henry had sent an email. Among other things, it inquired as to whether Ben would be hooking up with one of Colin’s bridesmaids. There were twelve—one for each day of Christmas, he’d been told—so while the odds were infinitesimally low, they were perhaps slightly higher than usual. 

He found himself partnered with Colin’s cousin Brenda. Not only was Brenda married, she was eight-plus months pregnant. 

“Hold her arm, Ben!” shrieked Sarah, from the front of the atrium in which the wedding was to take place. He was already holding it. “Hold it more firmly!”

Brenda, who at least seemed fairly good-natured, shook her head. “I’m fine. I can walk.” 

“This is so exciting, Brenda,” whispered a woman’s voice behind them. Stage-whispered. Ben had the distinct impression she wasn’t very good at whispering. “A Christmas baby.” 

Brenda stage-whispered back. “Oh, I’m not due for another three weeks.” 

Ben could have sworn he heard _bouncing_ , but he didn’t turn to look, because it was _very important_ (according to Sarah) that they practice walking down the aisle at exactly the right pace. “That’s even more exciting!” said the voice. “My birthday is January 18th. The baby and I might be birthday twins.” 

“Let me—” That was Chris, also behind Ben— “be the first to wish you an amazing birthday, Leslie Knope.” 

“Thank you, Chris.” 

When they reached the front of the atrium and assumed their ceremonial positions, Ben glanced across the aisle, though he knew he was supposed to be facing the audience. There was Brenda—frankly, she was hard to miss—and beside her was a small woman with bright blond hair and red ruffles everywhere. 

She looked...festive. 

He couldn’t quite make out her face from this distance. It was probably just the distance, given how much space a twenty-four-person wedding party took up, but he made a mental note to get his vision checked anyway. Just in case he needed glasses. 

“...ten lords-a-leaping, Ben.”

He jerked back to attention. “What’s that?” 

“Your cue,” said a woman to whom he’d never been introduced. She was the wedding planner, or Sarah’s mother, or maybe both, and she was inches in front of his face, pointing a gnarled finger at his chest. “You and Brenda represent ten lords-a-leaping. On the lyric, you’re to leap.” 

“What, right here?” 

The woman threw up her hands. “Where else?” 

“Um, point,” called Brenda. “I’m not in a condition to leap, necessarily…” 

For a brief, wondrous moment, Ben believed he’d been freed from the indignity of leaping in front of a 300-person wedding. 

“You two swap,” ordered the wedding planner, pointing at the woman on Brenda’s other side, a tall brunette who kept fidgeting with her dress. “Ben, you and Lindsay will now be paired. And you will leap. Yes?” 

He knew it wasn’t really a question. 

“Way to go, buddy,” whispered Chris, who seemed to feel no shame whatsoever about embodying nine ladies dancing. “I think you’ll find Lindsay an excellent partner.” 

“You know her?”

“No, but Leslie Knope says they’re best friends, and Leslie Knope seems like a lovely person. And she has told me that Lindsay is single.”

“So?”

“Lindsay is also a tall brunette. You always like tall brunettes.” 

“Not exclusively,” he muttered. 

“Historically yes, exclusively.” 

“Chris, I’m not at this wedding to hook up with someone.” 

“Oh, I know, but carpe diem, Ben! You’ll sit next to her at the rehearsal dinner, and—” 

“Eyes forward!” barked Sarah’s mother the wedding planner. “A quick run-through of the Christmas carols we’ll be singing, and then we’ll run straight through twice before dinner.” 

Even before they arrived at the rehearsal dinner, Ben had composed a brief email to Henry in his head (one he’d never send, because he wasn’t going to pay $14.95 a night for internet access). 

_Absolutely no chance of getting lucky this weekend_ was all it said. Not that he’d been aiming for that anyway. He wasn’t built for one-night stands. 

And he’d volunteer to train for Chris’s next triathlon before he’d volunteer to so much as kiss Lindsay Carlisle-Shay. Sure, she was pretty, but that beauty clearly ended at surface level. Everything about her demeanor was unpleasant. 

Unsurprisingly, she spent the entire rehearsal dinner flirting with Chris. But both Ben and Chris had gotten used to that long ago. Chris probably hadn’t even noticed. 

Leslie Knope, on the other hand, was a pretty good stranger to have dinner with. She kept conversation up, at least, and she was bright and witty and scrunched up her nose every time Chris expressed his distress over how much butter was in the chicken marsala they’d been served. The fourth time he mentioned it, Leslie—without blinking—scooped a roll from the bread basket, broke it open, unloaded an entire pat of butter on each side, and bit in with a decisiveness Ben hadn’t seen since he’d told the mayor of Hagerstown to either reduce his salary or cut the sewage maintenance budget. The mayor had not chosen wisely, and Ben had left Hagerstown in a shitstorm that had been perilously close to being literal. 

He had the distinct impression that if Leslie Knope were mayor, she’d have made the opposite choice. 

He also had the distinct impression that she desperately wanted to be mayor. Not of Hagerstown, but of Pawnee, where—as she began to explain—she was currently working in the Department of Parks and Recreation. 

And after that, he had the distinct impression that Lindsay had kicked Leslie under the table to make her shut up. 

A hand fell on his shoulder. “ _Ben_ ,” drawled Colin, stretching it out to at least three syllables. He was a little flushed and a little loud. “Man, I’m sorry. You didn’t find a date, huh?” 

Ben tried willing dessert to arrive. It did not. Colin turned the other way.

“Leslie, where’s Jason?” 

“Oh, we broke up a while ago.” 

Ben watched the muscles in her jaw clench slightly as she said it. He wondered if it was possible that the breakup had not been entirely mutual. 

“It’s fine,” she continued, waving off Colin’s concern. “I’m fine. I didn’t like him _that_ much.” 

***

“I know it’s traditional to hook up with the groomsman you’re partnered with,” said Lindsay, as she reapplied makeup between dinner and retreating to the resort’s bar. Leslie felt like she’d probably had enough wine with dinner, but Lindsay wanted to have a nightcap, so… 

“Is it?” 

“Of course it is.” 

“I’ve never done that.” 

“How many weddings have you been in?” 

“Eight.” 

“That’s a ridiculous amount of weddings. Anyway. I think we should switch. I think Chris and I really bonded over Atkins, you know?” 

Leslie tried to push back the heat that was starting to creep up her neck. “I wasn’t really listening.” 

“And he’s much more my type than yours. You always go for the weird ones.”

“I do not,” Leslie protested, though it was useless; Lindsay knew her love life inside out. 

“All I’m saying is, Chris and I could work. Dan and I could not.” 

“His name’s Ben.” Ben had a cute butt. She’d noticed that, walking behind him during the rehearsal. He looked familiar in a way she couldn’t quite place. And he worked in government, which would normally be a turn-on. 

But Ben had a terrible job, the worst possible government job; she knew that, because Colin had that job too. The first time they’d met, not long after he and Sarah had gotten _really serious_ , he’d told her what the state budget auditors did. It was infuriating, really. It was infuriating that the job existed—what kind of government would let its city fall into a budget crises like that?—and it was infuriating that state budget auditors, outsiders, could waltz into towns they knew nothing about and just start telling people who lived there and cared about where they lived what to do. 

“Whatever.” Lindsay snapped her compact shut. When she turned around, her eyes were strangely vulnerable. Maybe. Between the weight loss, the contact lenses, and the nose job, it had been increasingly difficult to read Lindsay’s expressions lately. “I just—I haven’t—”

Leslie nodded and wrapped her arms around her friend. 

She’d let Lindsay have Chris (besides, Lindsay was right, Chris really wasn’t her type). But she sure as hell wasn’t going to flirt with Ben, not even if he seemed nice for an auditor, not even if he had a cute butt, not even—she thought as they rounded the corner of the bar to find Chris waving enthusiastically and Ben oddly stiff on the next barstool—not even if his face wasn’t entirely terrible, either. 

***

Halfway through the first round, Chris abruptly decided Leslie needed to be introduced to a paunchy Ren Faire enthusiast he’d met in the men’s room, and dragged her away, giving Ben a pointed nudge in the ribs. 

He took a deep breath and opened his mouth. This wouldn’t be bad. He’d offer Lindsay another drink, she would say no, and they’d both be relieved. 

“Can I get you—” he started. But she’d already vanished. 

Ben swallowed the rest of his gin and tonic, threw half a glance at Chris and the other half at Leslie, and vanished himself. He opted for his undershirt rather than the Star Wars shirt he’d packed, brushed his teeth, and was in bed pretending to be asleep by the time Chris finished socializing and returned to their room. 

He never did really get to sleep. Chris hadn’t been kidding about the frequent urination, and he couldn’t seem to get up without making the entire bed shake. In the moments Ben was least conscious of his own wakefulness, he dreamed of a big park, in the winter, and a blonde woman on a skating pond. 

*** 

Across the hall, Leslie snuck into her own room to find Lindsay pretending to be asleep. She brushed her teeth, changed into pajamas, and curled up in the armchair, reading by her emergency purse flashlight until she felt sleepy enough to close her eyes. 

Just before she drifted off, her mind wandered inexplicably to high school, and her winter formal (she hadn’t had a date), and…

***

The nice thing about being on the groom’s side, Ben supposed, was that there was much less preparation to be done the day of the wedding. He’d brought some work with him, and he set up a nice little office area in the resort’s coffee shop. Snow had fallen overnight—not much, but enough to make the rolling lawns of the golf course especially pretty. He had a bagel and his old pal Dr. Buttons. It was a perfectly good place to spend his Saturday morning. 

“You’re _Benji Wyatt_.” 

He looked up to see Leslie Knope, her hair in rollers, the rest of her in a floor-length green taffeta monstrosity that made her look like an overwrought shiny Victorian tree. Ben realized at once that it was meant to match his necktie. 

“Excuse me?” 

She sat across from him. “I figured it out. Why you looked familiar. You’re Benji Wyatt. Aren’t you?” 

He sighed, sending Dr. Buttons a silent plea for help. As usual, his calculator remained silent. Leslie, however, let out a delighted cackle. 

“I knew you looked familiar,” she said. “You were so cute.”

 _Were_? “Thanks?” Dr. Buttons still wasn’t helping. 

“What happened, Mr. Mayor? How’d you wind up in Indiana, slashing budgets and ruining lives?” 

“Ruining lives?” Ben forced himself to look up. The Victorian tree dress was strapless, and Leslie’s exposed shoulders smooth and freckled in the winter light. 

“Sure. You ride into town on a high horse and—” She shook her head and leaned forward, fingertips pressed together atop the table. “Never mind that now. Tell me all about Partridge, Minnesota.”

She _knew_. How did she know? 

“The thing about eighteen-year-olds,” he said, slowly, “is that they’re idiots. So yeah, I was elected, but I also ran the town into the ground in a couple of months and subsequently got impeached.” 

Leslie sat up straight. “Huh. Really? I don’t remember hearing about that part.”

“Well, the town tried to keep it quiet, obviously. It was embarrassing for everyone.” 

“So what happened after that?” 

“After I got impeached?” He shrugged and nodded at the spreadsheets that sat between them. “I’ve spent the past fifteen years trying to prove I’m responsible.” 

“You seem responsible. You’re at resort for the weekend and you’re sitting in a coffee shop with spreadsheets and a calculator. It’s almost fascist.” 

He half smiled at that. “It’s a golf resort, and it’s snowing. And it’s definitely not _fascist_.”

“Do you golf?”

“No.” 

“Too bad,” she said. “I would’ve challenged you. I’m pretty good. What about ice skating? You skate, right?”

This time he really did crack a smile. “Hi. I’m from Minnesota.” 

“I hear they have a rink here. Wanna go skating? I’ll race you.” 

“Aren’t we supposed to be in a wedding this afternoon?”

“Crap on a leg warmer, we are,” said Leslie, dress crinkling loudly as she stood up, “Too bad. I’ve got to get back upstairs. The bride needs her cappuccino. But it was nice talking to you, Mr. Mayor.” 

“Don’t…” Ben started, but then he caught sight of her face, realized it was still friendly, and the words _call me that_ drifted away before he could speak them. 

He imagined Leslie ice-skating on an idyllic little frozen pond, in that ridiculous bridesmaid’s dress. 

It would probably be impossible for anyone to skate in a dress like that, though. He refashioned the dress into a skating costume. Had he seen Leslie’s legs last night? Probably—she had been wearing a skirt, hadn’t she? All he could really recall were the ruffles. He hadn’t thought to notice her legs. 

That bridesmaid’s dress was nobody’s friend, but the parts of Leslie it showed off seemed…nice, so he let her keep twirling circles on the pond, doing all those spins and jumps they did in the Olympics but he’d never learned to tell apart. 

Dr. Buttons, in power-save mode, blinked off and lost an entire column’s worth of double-checking.

*** 

Evie, Sarah’s little sister and maid of honor, was a beautiful, dynamic, ambitious young woman. She was also kind of Leslie’s second least favorite word for a woman. And somehow, over the course of their preparations, she had become awfully chummy with Lindsay. They were standing next to each other now, though it was less than three minutes until the wedding was supposed to start and they really ought to have been lined up in order. 

“How many weddings have you been in now, Leslie?” Evie asked, for what was probably the fourth time that day. She needlessly adjusted a sprig of greenery in Leslie’s mistletoe-and-holly bouquet. 

Leslie gritted her teeth. “Eight.” 

“Well, you know what they say. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.” Evie turned away before Leslie could respond. 

She bit her lip. Too hard. She tasted blood. 

The reason she’d been a bridesmaid so often, Leslie told herself, was that she was an excellent friend, and efficient, and organized, and therefore exactly the kind of person you wanted around during your wedding. She was a damn good bridesmaid. And it wasn’t like she needed to be married. She was still young. She’d promised herself, after Jason (and after the Civil War reenactor, and after...well, several other boyfriends), that she wasn’t going to fall madly, instantaneously in love the next guy who seemed interested in her. Being single was just fine. There was plenty of time…

Her feet hurt already. All the other bridesmaids were much taller than she was, and Sarah had ordered her into some extremely high heels. And she had to mime nine ladies dancing in them. 

“Leslie Knope,” called Chris, jogging into place beside her. “Are you ready?” 

She nodded and offered him her arm. “Let’s do this.”

***

Two glasses of champagne into the reception, with no food in sight, Ben felt a rush of bubbles to the head and realized it was seven o’clock at night and all he’d eaten that day was a bagel. 

***

Two glasses of champagne into the reception, with no food in sight, Leslie lost all sensation in her feet. It seemed rude to be barefoot before dinner had even been served, so although she knew cocktail hour was meant for mingling, she sat in her designated chair and resolved to sip the third glass of champagne much more slowly. 

All she’d eaten today, she realized, was a cookie. It seemed insubstantial now. She could really have gone for a big greasy plate of bacon. 

“Leslie,” cooed a voice. She turned to see Sarah’s Aunt Margaret, and stood up to hug the older woman. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

“It’s lovely to see you too.”

“Have you brought anyone special? I’d love to meet him.”

Leslie eyed one of the roving champagne waiters and willed him to bring her a fourth glass, preemptively. “No,” she said, “I’m not seeing anyone right now.” 

After Aunt Margaret left, Leslie repeated the conversation with Sarah’s ex-college roommate Julie, who’d just gotten married herself; with an ancient female state budget auditor who reminded her strongly of Ethel Beavers back home, and with Brenda, who sat down, propped up her feet, and complained at length about swollen ankles. 

“Can’t wait for tonight,” she whispered conspiratorially. “My husband’s already promised a full thirty-minute foot rub.” 

“That sounds nice,” Leslie responded. Her voice sounded thin and sickly in her ears. Why weren’t there any hors d’oeuvres at this cocktail hour? And where was Lindsay? She scanned the crowd, but couldn’t see her best friend anywhere. 

Lindsay didn’t arrive at their table until just before the bread basket arrived. She did not, of course, eat any bread, or much of anything else. She did keep up a running conversation with Chris. A conversation about running, which Lindsay recently had taken up and Chris knew everything in the world about. 

Leslie signaled the waiter for another glass of champagne. 

***

“This is a good song!” Leslie yelled, pointing at the DJ. Ben had no idea what the song was, but it was loud, sure, and it was fast, and his brain made his head nod in agreement. “You wanna dance with me? Let’s dance.” 

“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“It’s a great idea.” She stood up, then immediately sat down and started tearing at her shoes. “We’re at a wedding and I’m really drunk and I want to dance. And I don’t have a boyfriend. Did you know that, Benji Wyatt? I don’t have a boyfriend. Totally single.” 

“I did know that,” he said. “A lot of people have asked you that.” 

“Are you single?” 

He nodded. “A lot of people have asked me that too.” 

“Is that why you’re drunk?”

“I’m not drunk,” he protested. 

“Dance with me anyway,” she ordered, standing up again. She was about four inches shorter now. And she was awfully _bossy_ for someone so tiny. And drunk though he was, an attractive woman wanted him to dance with her and he wasn’t _stupid_. He was just really, really bad at dancing. 

Leslie didn’t seem to care that he couldn’t keep a rhythm. She might not have noticed. Her version of dancing involved shaking her hips and throwing her hands around with her eyes half-closed. 

“You’re really good at this,” he shouted over the DJ. Leslie grinned and grabbed his wrists. His palms curled in anticipation of her hips, but she wasn’t putting his hands there; she was just—she was—jumping, and fiddling with his cuffs. 

“These are great cuff links!”

“They’re gingerbread men!”

“I know! I like gingerbread men!” 

She slid her palms down the backs of his hands, and their fingers interlaced.

“You know what, Benji Wyatt?” 

“What?” 

“I really want cake.” She threw her head back as she said it, making visible the curve between her neck and her shoulder, and Ben suddenly felt a thousand times drunker. 

***

Lindsay was nowhere, and the other bridesmaids were everywhere, and her feet hurt, and she’d congratulated Sarah and Colin at least seven times by now. And she’d had cake. And she was _tired_. Tired of standing, tired of dancing, tired of this horrible dress that made her look like an English Christmas cracker. She didn’t have to consult her chart to know it wasn’t time to drive yet, but that was the one great thing about weddings at golf resorts—you didn’t have to leave until morning. So she bade farewell to the few people left around their table and headed back to her room, heels and purse in hand. 

On the other side of the giant Christmas tree in the lobby, she found Ben, cell phone in hand. 

“Good night,” she called, waving at him. 

He fell in beside her as they reached the elevator lobby. “Just calling my mom to tell her about the ceremony,” he said. “She likes Colin.” 

“Colin’s great.”

“Yep.” 

The elevator arrived, and they stepped in. “What floor are you on?” she asked. 

“Two,” Ben said, which meant there was only one button for her to push. “I guess I could’ve just walked up the stairs.” 

She shrugged. “It’s late.” 

He followed her out of the elevator. 

“Wait, what room are you in?” she asked. 

“214.” 

“Oh, that’s funny. I’m right across the hall.”

“I guess they just set aside a block for the wedding party.” 

“Some of the other bridesmaids are on six. Maybe they booked late or something.”

“Maybe,” Ben agreed. They reached their doors. “Well, good night.” 

Leslie didn’t respond. She just looked at her doorknob. 

“Hey,” she said, turning to catch Ben’s arm before he vanished. “Is that a sock on my door handle?” The do-not-disturb sign was out, too. 

Ben obligingly peered over. “It does look like a sock.” 

The sock was blue, with penguins. “That’s _my_ sock. Why is my sock on the door handle?” She stuck her key in the slot and turned the knob, but the door only opened half an inch before the deadbolt caught. “The door’s deadbolted.” 

She turned back to Ben, who looked like he’d just walked in on—on—

“Leslie,” he said, as though the words in his mouth tasted bad, “did you see Lindsay or Chris at the reception just before you left?”

“No,” she said. “I haven’t seen them since— _oh_. Oh, god.” 

They stood in the hallway for a moment, both staring at Leslie’s sock. Then Ben wordlessly pushed his own door open and gestured inside. 

It was empty. No sign of Chris. 

Leslie’s common sense told her that going into the motel room of a man she had met less than 48 hours ago was not the most brilliant idea she’d ever had. But she was tired, and Lindsay had locked her out. The combination of fatigue and sadness was enough to make her nod and walk inside. Her gut told her Ben wasn’t one of those men. It also reminded her that he was a friend of a friend, or a friend of her friend’s fiancé at any rate, and maybe that made it slightly better? 

Anyway, she had mace; there was always mace in her clutch purse. Mace and a condom. She had mace, a condom, and the indignity of being sexiled via her own sock. 

*** 

“I mean,” Ben said, having just realized the obvious, “we could go back down to the bar, or something. Or the reception is still going on. We don’t have to be in my room.” 

He watched Leslie pitch forward and flop face down on the foot of the bed. “No,” she moaned, her face inches from where Chris’s shoes had been the night before. “My feet hurt. And I want to get this stupid dress off. I’ve been wearing it for nine hours. You don’t have my pajamas, do you?” 

“I don’t, no.” 

She remained motionless. “Lindsay has my pajamas. Stupid Lindsay.” 

“I’m going to fill the ice bucket and get us some bottles of water.” 

“I can drink tap water,” she said. “It’s fine.” 

“I’ll get bottles anyway.” 

He crossed the room, intending to grab the ice bucket, but instead he found himself in front of his own suitcase. 

“Here,” he said, holding out his own pajamas. “I know this is weird, but you’re welcome to these. They’re clean. Well, the shirt’s clean.”

“The pants aren’t clean?” 

“Um…I just wore them last night. They were clean before that.” 

She sat up, took the garments from him, and contemplated them for a moment. Then she placed her hand on his wrist and smiled. “Thank you.” 

Ben swallowed, and decided he really ought to go to the ice machine right away.

When he came back, she was in the bathroom. He could hear water running over what sounded like an original Lifetime Channel Christmas movie. He poured them each a glass of ice water, took off his suit jacket and necktie and shoes, and rolled his sleeves up to the elbows. The room was a little chilly, so he turned up the heat. Then he became momentarily distracted by the snow falling outside, and spent a moment watching bright, fat flakes drift to the earth. If this kept up, everything would be blanketed in a couple of hours. 

He heard the bathroom door open and shut, but didn’t turn around right away. When he did, he found Leslie sitting in the lone bed, propped up on all the pillows with her knees hugged into her chest. The legs of the pajamas were too long, mostly pooled around her feet, revealing only her toenails. Those, he noticed for the first time, were painted bright red. The Star Wars t-shirt, old and stretched out, hung loosely over her shoulders. She’d switched on one of the bedside lamps, and the TV was indeed on to an original Lifetime Christmas movie. Leslie hit the mute button when she noticed he'd turned around. 

“This hotel only gets six channels,” she informed him. 

He handed her a glass of water, and tried not to think too hard about the fact that a really attractive woman was in his bed, making his pajamas look better than he’d ever imagined possible. 

“Ben?”

“Hmm?”

“Would you think I was terrible if I asked you to get some chips from the vending machine?” 

***

“I’m still not sure I understand the plot of this movie.” 

“The chips are almost gone,” she said. “You’ve had four bags of vending machine chips to get it.” 

Ben raised an eyebrow. “Okay, one, you can’t measure time in junk food. Two, I’ve only eaten two bags of chips. You had the other two. Three—”

“Jeez, you’re precise.” 

“ _Three_ , I haven’t been paying attention to the movie. We were talking.” 

He had a point, but she didn’t want to admit it, so she jumped up and stole the rest of his chips. 

“Hey. I was eating those.” 

He was smiling, though. _Still_ smiling. She hadn’t been paying attention to the movie either, not enough to really know what was going on. They had been talking, talking for over an hour now, about weddings and breakups and political biographies and her current pet project, Camp Athena. It was a very confusing conversation. She’d started to lose her reservations about Ben’s job, for one thing, because while it almost certainly sucked to have an auditor come into your town, she had definitely started to see that having a budget specialist on your side might be very, very useful when it came to things like building summer camps with state funding. 

For another thing, even though she wanted to hear what he thought about her budgets, she also wanted to hear more about his breakups, and why they had happened. The longer they talked, and the more he smiled at her, the harder it was to imagine why he was single. Which he was. She knew that. Everyone at the reception had asked. 

Leslie wasn’t drunk anymore, but the pleasant fuzzy warmth that alcohol gave still seemed to be spreading through her body. 

This probably wasn’t good. 

“You snooze, you lose,” she told him. But she opened the bag to him anyway, and let him pull out one last chip, which he didn’t eat. He gestured at the screen with the potato chip instead. 

“So what’s going on?”

Leslie turned to the TV. “My guess is that this girl, the heroine, she’s lost her Christmas spirit because she doesn’t want to be single for the holidays. She wants to date the handsome athletic dude, but he’s only interested in hooking up, maybe. He doesn’t really like her. And she’s about to meet the guy in the ugly sweater, and he’s really the right one.” 

“Oh, see, I was thinking the guy in the sweater works at the North Pole, and he’s been in love with this woman from a distance—”

“Like he’s been spying on her?” 

“No—well, yeah, but in a Christmas way, you know? His job has something to do with monitoring the ‘nice’ list.”

“And she’s on the nice list?”

He nodded. “Definitely. But he’s too nervous to make a move, because he’s an elf and she’s human. I mean, he’s probably an elf.” 

“I think we’re watching two completely different movies,” she said. 

“No. Our plots are compatible. I think they are, anyway.”

Leslie grabbed the remote and held it up. “I could turn up the sound.” She didn’t do it, though. 

“Speaking of snoozing,” Ben said, which they hadn’t been for some time, “is it weird that Chris hasn’t tried to come back in here yet?” 

“I can go out and see if there’s still a sock on the door,” she offered. 

He bit his lip. “Only if you want to.” 

“I don’t.” The words rushed out before she fully realized she’d been thinking them, and she hastily tried to backpedal. “I mean—if you want to get some sleep—” 

On television, the heroine had donned an ugly sweater of her own, and was making out with the guy who might have been an elf under some mistletoe. It was, she was quite sure, the first time they’d met. 

Ben didn’t say anything. He just remained sitting in the uncomfortable chair he’d been sitting in for almost two hours. His smile had faded and been replaced with something…more intense. 

His fingers twitched against the tabletop. Suddenly, all Leslie could think about was how good it would feel to have those fingers on her hips, on her waist, tracing the back of her neck. She rose from the bed and crossed two steps to Ben’s chair, her body moving with intent before her brain could say _no_. 

“Leslie,” Ben breathed, and she was close enough to feel her own name on her collarbone. “What are we doing?” 

“I…” 

Not kissing him. She wasn’t kissing him. He didn’t want her to. 

She stood up straight. “I’ll—I’ll go see if the sock is still there.” And she started to pull away, but Ben reached for her hand, caught it, and squeezed. 

“Don’t,” he said. “I mean—Leslie, _what are we doing_?”

He gave her arm a gentle tug, and though she was sure all of her was bright pink with embarrassment and she kind of wanted to run away, she didn’t. She returned to the bed and tucked her knees back up under her chin. 

“I’m serious,” he said, looking at her with complete sincerity. “I don’t—I don’t _do_ this.” 

“Pick up bridesmaids at weddings?” 

“One-night stands. As a rule. I don’t.” 

Leslie took a deep breath. “I don’t either,” she admitted. 

“I mean, they’re pretty much never an option for me in the first place—” He paused and ran a hand through his hair. “But I’ve—I mean, a couple of times, sure, but...”

She waited for him to finish the sentence, and when he didn’t immediately do so, she bit her lip as hard as she could without drawing blood and tried to focus her attention on the TV. 

***

On TV, the elf had shed his ugly sweater. Shirtless, he was between red satin sheets that were slightly artfully draped around the heroine. You didn’t have to understand the plot to know that he and the heroine were in post-coital bliss, thus proving to Ben that even an elf with negative fashion sense was better at picking up women than he was. 

But that was the problem, wasn’t it, what he’d just said—that he didn’t _like_ just picking up women even on the rare occasions he felt like he might be able to pull off doing it. There was very limited pleasure in it. He didn’t just want the post-coital bliss; he wanted the two hours of conversation over greasy vending machine potato chips and holding hands in the snow and waking up next to a person you knew would be there the next night. Sex for the sake of sex had very limited appeal. 

“What if we tried being those people?” Leslie asked quietly. Her voice stayed mostly even, but she was twisting the edges of the bedsheet around her fingers, and if Ben hadn’t known better, he might have let himself believe that she would be deeply hurt if he said _no_. “What if, just for tonight, we were the kind of people who did that kind of thing?” 

He let out a breath, and somehow felt all the more tense for having done so. “But we’re _not_. We wouldn’t be. In the morning.” 

“Does it matter?” 

“Yes.” He took another breath and let that out too. “It does. To me.” 

Leslie remained silent for a moment. 

“To me too,” she said, eventually. “And I know I just broke up with someone pretty recently. But this—I don’t know.” 

“You want a rebound?” 

She shook her head, and the dim bedside lamp caught a tear welling in the corner of her eye. “No. We both deserve better than that.” 

“What do you…” The words trailed off as Ben let himself realize that what _he_ wanted right now, more than anything, was Leslie in his arms. Even if nothing else happened, he wanted that. He could have had it, a few moments ago, and he probably still could. 

Heartbeat quickening, he sat next to her on the bed, where she curled into him without comment, tucking her head under his chin and god, yes, he wanted this. They sat for a few minutes, or maybe it was ten or twenty, breathing together, and at the end of it, when Leslie lifted her head, he couldn’t stop himself from kissing her. 

Not that he wanted to. 

Maybe he could have stopped himself from kissing her a second time, or a third, or from sliding his hands from her hair to her shoulders, but he didn’t want to. Maybe he could have stopped her from straddling his lap, but didn’t want to do that either. Her breasts, soft and round under his Star Wars t-shirt, brushed against his chest, and he let one hand slide a little further down. 

“Oh, god,” she moaned, and that was it. Just for tonight, he was one of those people, and it had already started to feel like the best decision he’d ever made. 

“Wait,” he said, pushing back against her. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I’m great,” he said. “I just—I need to know—Leslie, if I drove down to Pawnee sometime, would you go on a real date with me?” 

She nodded, and he felt several cables of muscle in his back relax. 

“And tomorrow morning. Can we go out for breakfast tomorrow? Not in the resort. Somewhere else.” 

She nodded again. “To be honest,” she said, “I like breakfast better than dinner. It’s important to know that about me.” 

“Yeah?” 

Leslie leaned in and kissed him again. “And I have a condom in my purse. You should probably also know that.” 

He jumped out of bed.

“Ben, I can reach my purse from here,” she said, pointing at the end table. 

“Not that,” he said. “I mean, not yet. Hang on, I have to—” 

Chris might be sleeping with Lindsay, or he might be sleeping with any of a dozen other people, or he might have gotten himself into another twelve-hour overnight meditation session. It had happened before. But in case it didn’t… 

Ben hopped his way to the door, pulling a sock off his foot as he went. 

*** 

“What time is it?” 

Ben rolled over slightly, revealing his back, which she’d decided she liked a lot. It felt good under her palms when he pushed into her, and it led to his butt, which felt even better. 

“About five-thirty,” he said. 

“Is it too early for our breakfast date?” 

Ben grinned and tucked her back under his arm, catching the hem of the old Star Wars t-shirt in his fingers. “Are you going out in this, or the bridesmaid’s dress?” 

She groaned. “Stupid clothes,” she said. “You know, I have a whole extra suitcase in my car, but the car keys are in the other room, and—oh hey, look. That movie with the ugly sweater elf is coming on again at six. We can find out the plot.”

“So we’ll have to order in,” he said, twisting back around so he could pick up the phone to call room service. 

Leslie twisted too, wrapping her arm around his waist, and kissed the back of his neck. “Ben.”

“Hmm?” 

“Ask if they have waffles.”


End file.
